EARNING HER SPURS

Thin, slender, sharp as icicles edge, the long sword felt cold against my fingertip. I wasn't sure why I was sitting in front of Mikken or holding a well forged long blade until I saw the blacksmith's brows curve in a question. A question enquiring about the art of his work. But why would he care about my appreciation?

No way!

The more I gawked at him, my face started taking odd shapes, head moving in denial.

My eyes were goggling out, mouth opened big to swallow the air. How could I not float in the mist, when my long-time dream was making its luscious arrival on a golden platter? My childish grin must have made Mikken to join in the folly. I rarely had these moments, where I gave myself away to the gravity of the situation, without a worry. And whenever I had, I adorned myself with a stupid face.

This was once in a lifetime moment. I was never allowed to own a true blade. Robb wasn't either, so I hadn't given flowers to my fantasies. Now that I held my own steel in my palms, sharp enough to dribble blood from the flesh of my thumb for the faintest touch, I lost my sanity.

I threw my lean arms around the Smith, thanking him for making me happy. My girlish feather-light giggles filled the silence of the smithy. Damn the proprieties! I was high in the sky. And this was my freaking moment. The moment I was yearning, desperately, wickedly, passionately for months now… Lately, the only topic I and Robb had bickered about, at night, was of owning a real steel between our fingers.

"Don't hurt yourself, my lady!" Mikken's eyes bulged. "Your father may pluck your blade out if you do so." My eyes darted towards the entrance where my father was standing by the threshold of the smithy, eyeing at my ridiculous behavior through his soft gray eyes. I couldn't see past the veil that hung before his vision. This was his way. He would get lost to another world, standing on a thin rope of past and present, whenever I behaved like a fool.

Any other father would have admonished such whimsical. Seven Hells! Robb had been warned several times to shed the feathers of his boyish charms and get prepared for the Winter and was forced to grow up to be a man. But Lord Eddard Stark never gave such misgivings to me. He didn't need to. Some things grew on me faster than it was on Robb.

To say I ran towards him, would be an understatement. Air was knocked out of my lungs as I flung myself on my father and collided against his chest. My arms were around his neck when he gave a soft laugh, balancing to hold his stance against the threshold. "Gods, Lya! You have grown up. Too big to own a sword now, huh?" Ned Stark's amused voice came out amidst his mild laughter.

And I was not ready to let go of him, clinging around his warmth like a leech sucking blood. I wanted to give up fighting inside my head. I wanted to feel relieved, even if it was going to last only a moment. I knew my pathetic, low, self-esteemed head would ruin everything come the next day, questioning my worth over and again. But I gave myself a pass that second, breathing into his leather tunic to catch his scent. And his protective, loving heart was beating against my cheeks. Did my heart felt lighter…? Oh, I so much as spilled a teardrop when his thick palms gently rubbed against my back.

"Aye!" Mikken responded, sheathing my new sword into the leather belt. "Grown enough to wield a sword, now. Can't wait to hear her first kill."

My father's chest stiffened as he gingerly lowered me to the ground. Taking the sheathed blade in his palms, he walked with me across the castle, and I was beaming at everyone I met upon. It was quite a sight for the household to see me behave like a fool. I am a prideful creature, and I often rehearsed every important moment a thousand times in my head, unlike now when I actually gave no care for the world.

Ideally, the master-at-arms would deem and decide if a man was worth owning a true steel. And I'd pondered over moons, how no one would do that honor to me, considering I wasn't trained by Ser Rodrik Cassel. I was planning to persuade Jory after Robb had earned his spurs. Never did I dream to taste this delicious treat from my father's own hand.

He uttered no word until we reached the courtyard, even while I threw my glances several times at his directions, beaming brightly. I would usually be micro-analyzing him, wondering what would go on in his head. At that moment, though, I wasn't bothered by it. I own a bloody sword, now. I could goad Robb till he would snap out and run for a lonely ride to the hills. I have earned mine before Robb could. How could I easily let go of this moment?

"Owning a blade is not the same as wielding a blade, Lya," Father said, offering the sword to my hand.

My face became long, like his. I hadn't expected he would doubt my skills. No, I couldn't bear to think that he would have doubts about me at all. It stung my ego, and I was already on a mission to prove to him that I was worth it. "Last time, I bested both Jory and Robb." Jory was the captain of the guards, after all. It would mean something to best him, even if it was thrice in six times. "And when I-"

"I know how you practice. I have seen enough of it, child." My father gave me a warm smile that reached the heart. "It's one thing to fight with a blunt blade and another to wield a steel." Of course, he'd observed all the times. Every failure of mine, every fall of mine, every wound of mine had been noticed by him. "When this blade takes a life, you have to know that it was needed, not wanted."

I admit I couldn't subject myself to listen. Blood was pumping too high to every tip of my muscle to allow any other sound to my hearing. And when a thick arm patted the back of my shoulders, breaking that bond of trance between us, I turned to find the long-whiskered master-at-arms by my side. "Ready to train, soldier?!" Ser Rodrik asked in his cool temper. That was the polar opposite of his ideal nature. He was stern and stubborn, disciplined, and ordered like no one in this castle. But my chest stiffened, all the same, feeling prideful, like a true soldier. "If you want to keep the blade, then you will waste no time. Run along and do an armor about you." He ordered, his harsh commander's voice returning, and I didn't spare a second.

I was drenched in victory, already, as though I held the world in my palms, and everything was falling right into my basket. How stupid I was!

When I returned, my father was not there in the courtyard, and there I stood amongst the muscular, large, boisterous, burly men–my father's guards, in ill-fitted armor, that stretched me from neck to toe. The iron helmet was sitting uncomfortably on my neck. I never trained with so many layers to cover up my body. Blunt blades had given purple bruisings to my smooth skin, but I hadn't flinched from those bearable wounds. Pain was a sweet reminder of my growth. But a sharp steel was not a blunt blade. I wouldn't just get merely bruised, but get long-lasting ghastly scars if I am lucky, else I would lose my limbs in the process.

So, I bore the scaled armor, which was better than the plated ones, to move around for the entire day. I was thinking the old man would train me. After all, he'd called me a soldier. But, no. Every one of my father's guards was giving their best on the pit, and although I made a mental note of everyone's strengths and weaknesses, which I assumed would be useful when I would be given a chance, the whole waiting business went futile. The bloody white whisker didn't allow me anywhere close to the pit. I had walked around him like a cat, politely giving him a glimpse of my presence. Rather than sending me to the pit to fight, he had asked me to help heal the wounds of the injured men.

Those men were all glowing with sweat, the aftereffect of owning the control of one another's fate, flashing through their steamed breath, even if it was for mere moments. I wanted that. I craved to feel that pump of blood in my body. When Ser Rodrik asked all the men to disperse, I lost my cool. I wandered in long strikes, with my held high, and asked in my formidable voice. "I want to get into the pit. I want to fight too."

He glanced at me as though he had no idea where I'd come from. Bloody bastard! He was simply putting off a show in front of my father. If I'd guessed the reason behind the twitch of his whisker right, I knew he was pitying me. "To lose your limbs, girl?" He mocked. "Those are trained soldiers, whom I myself groomed since they were boys. Not your sweet brother who will refuse to touch his tip of the blade on you, because it will bruise your body. Run along, now! I will see your worth when the time comes."

The low whispers from the men around gave goose prickles to my skin. I couldn't bear the insult. Not in something that I'd always assumed better about myself. Pride and ego spoke for itself through my trembling, angered lips. "I have earned my own blade. I am better than any of your men. I have waited for fourteen freaking years. I want to learn more! Let me learn!"

He narrowed down his gaze at me like I'd grown two horns on my head. If Robb was here, he would have said I'd looked like demon reincarnated. Waving his hands around his men, he asked the fighting pit to be cleared. Suddenly, trepidation and anxiety filled my boiling blood, and I sought out for someone more familiar amongst the crowd. I'd confidence in my skill. I'd equally knocked down Robb, as much as he had done to me. I was swift and calculative, as I was lean, whereas Robb was muscular. I could take out anyone, right?

"There is no going back if you enter that pit." Ser Rodrik warned, clutching to my shoulders, and a drop of sweat dribbled down my neck. "You think you deserve to own a real sword? Fine! Then pass this simple test. If you fail today, you will give up taking the blade." He said in his calmest voice and my ears turned red. Did he set it all up to prove I would lose, just so he can make me back off? Every waking day, since I could remember, I was roaming with a wooden club, playing the parts of heroes from songs. How dare does this white whisker underestimate me? "Is that understood, Lady Lyarra?" His treasonous voice that addressed me as a lady, gave it all away of his intention. I was a girl before him, one who was not worthy of fights on the field. I clenched my teeth in murderous anger before I shrugged his arm from my shoulder and entered the pit. "You can choose anyone who you want to fight against." The old man offered.

They laughed at me… They all freaking laughed at me, one after the other. Obviously, they saw me as this girl, with no thick muscles to aid in putting weight on the blade. But I couldn't get distracted now. If I did, then I would make terrible mistakes. I tried to remain calm, but I was earnestly wishing for Robb to be there in the pit, to help me choose, to help me guide. I took a complete moment, breathing in and out before my eyes traveled to every face I remember. Instinctively I wished for someone of Robb's physique, muscular but young enough to make mistakes. But, this fire inside me, the wroth of my being, this monster inside me, gave a dare. I knew it was the stupidest mistake I was going to commit, but I was stubborn and idiotic by nature and I pointed my sword at the old man, Ser Rodrik. I could hear the crowd go silent, and everyone's breathing becoming too audible to my sensitive ears.

All foolish acts would look like bravado only for a second, and my foolish temper was beginning to fade in its glory when the old man gave a mocking laughter. "If you truly believe you can best me, then you have already lost in choosing your battles, girl. What is the point to teach a stupid lamb which will offer its head to the butcher?" The old man said, and I knew it was true in my bones. He was too good to be bested on an even ground. He was an anointed knight, for God's sake. But I can't let him know I was scared.

"Frightened, Ser Rodrik?" I taunted. I had to. Playing with his head was my thinnest veil to escape this tragedy. "Is it unnerving for you to lose against the same girl you refused to train? Don't worry, I will go easy on you. After all, Winterfell will need a master-at-arms who is not crippled."

The air became silent with time, and I knew what I had done. Even if I win, I was never going to be trained. But, at least, I would be remembered as the girl who challenged the white whisker. Men would chant praises for days to come, and finally, I could put an end to my fantasy of becoming a warrior like Queen Visenya, and ask my father to get me married to the bastard boy of Hornwood.

It worked, brilliantly, in a way that I hadn't expect it to work. The old man was too honorable to think I was just messing with his head. It didn't mean I was safe from blows. The shiny long blade in his arms sliced the thick air with a sound of 'whoosh' and went straight to my legs to cut it in halves. "Fuck!" I muttered, scarcely escaping the blow by falling back. He was really going for it, for my life, more like aiming for a crippled life. I was quick to recover, and I was already on my feet before he came back and for the first time, my steel kissed his own, and with greater effort, I dodged it.

I guarded my vulnerabilities and waited for his weak moment. Ser Rodrik was not so thick muscled. He was old, yes, but not so thick for me to prod at his extra skin. In fact, he seemed to be aware of guarding his vulnerabilities just like me, which gave me no choice other than to wait. We circled like hawks, and I always stood on defense. That was my tactic. Being fast and swift before my opponent could guess my next move and place the blade on their neck. I would have lunged on Robb and taken him out with preciseness if he was my opponent. But my stakes were high now. I was holding a real blade, and it meant a choice between life and crippled life. Besides, Ser Rodrik was not Robb.

Blade swinging across the air, Ser Rodrik danced new steps that I had never anticipated or ever seen anyone performing. Jory never taught me about it, and I kept falling back as he swung at all directions, his arms too fast for me to find an unguarded area to attack. I had trained only with Robb to anticipate every move of his, but Ser Rodrik seemed to be an unknown puzzle for even the men around here. No one had seen him train.

They were all hurling praised curses for his splendid moves, which made my confidence be pulled down a peg. He lunged his sword at my chest and even though I tried to defend, his arms were too powerful for me to dodge, let alone parry. I was on the ground, knocked down on my ass, panting in need of air, suffocating inside the helmet. He raised the sword above his head, a last act of chivalry to prove his prowess before cutting me down, and instinctively I kicked his shin, hard enough that my heels ached tensely for me to regain the momentum and raise.

Now, it was his time to be eating mud. And he was more tired than me. Probably the aftereffect of over-swinging the sword. Still, he was far away from giving up. In fact, I couldn't see myself winning this little tryst. Even if I was fast, I wasn't landing any attacks. He was leading the play. "How does the mud taste, old man?" I dared myself to play with his head, casually, as though I was unbothered. "Don't worry if you forgot the taste. I will feed you some more before you go to bed."

The men laughed, and I saw his whisker tremble. I knew I got under his skin. I just needed one mistake of his and I would win. Hope blossomed in my chest, and I vigorously escaped his blows. He went for my head, towards my arms, to every possible place he could find my body. I couldn't match his strength, but my body was flexible than his. It was when the last straw of his patience dried that I saw his weakness when he raised his sword high across his head to give me a final, fatal blow. Had I been a clever defender, I would have jumped away. But I was a vain loser. So, I brought my elite blade to plunge between his underarm and the side of his chest, that I was stunned to see blood trickle down my glistening steel.

Have you ever came too close to victory and started indulging in its taste, only to realize you still hadn't crossed the winning line? Well, I had at that moment. Fascination is a monster that leads us to indefinite misery.

I learned that the hard way when I forgot to recompose and taste my non-existing victory. I was given a stunning kick to my stomach, and I landed five feet away from my opponent before I was dragged in the mud further, by the force of his blow. I was already ready to heave my morning breakfast. Each little muscle in my body ached, my arms sore to the point of dead, dealing with the impact on the ground and I blinked several times to focus, all the while wondering why my shit-head provoked for a duel that I knew I wouldn't win. Pate would have been an easy target. He'd always lost to Robb. Even Tiny Tom would have been a fair reward. Now, I would have to live as a laughingstock, losing my blade. How could I even face my father? I flexed my fingers to clutch the phantom blade that I owned only for a day. Right! Now, I had to go to bed knowing I didn't deserve to hold one.

Before I could roll to my sides, I was pulled from the ground, lifted in the air, and I thought I would have to wave a white flag before Ser Rodrik would crush my neck between his thick fingers. But he didn't. He was seething through his teeth and slowly lowered me to so my foot touched the ground. I felt shame crawling over every inch of my skin and I wanted nothing other than to bury myself in a burrow, rather to meet his eyes. Pulling my arm in a sudden jerk, Ser Rodrik placed the bleeding sword on my palms. Having nothing to be prideful about, tears almost blinding me, I forgot to take note of the silence or the reason why my blade came back to my hand.

He left the damn place, walking to the armory. It was then, only then, my head processed, and I was already surrounded by my father's men as they teased my win, calling me to join their little feast in Wintertown. They forgot that I didn't fit with them. In fact, I forgot that I didn't fit with them. I would have loved to join, but I am a girl, and I knew what conspiracies would be spread about my purity if I as much as wander with strange men.

When all was said and over, I walked back to the armory, helmet in my hand, still reeling in the memory of what I had done, my insecurity questioning the rights if I'd earned it or not when I heard his voice.

"You will be split into two, within five seconds, if you get yourself in a battle." Ser Rodrik's thundering voice boomed, and I saw him leaning against the wooden table. Jory and my father were standing next to him. My jaw slacked, hands twitched, eyes plopped out, seeing two of the most respectable men I knew, standing close to the master-at-arms. Did they watch me fighting?

Shame was wholly eating my body. My flushed cheeks grew more red, like berries, as my eyes searched for my father. He was not offering the smile that he'd offered in the morning. Would he disown me for not being honorable? My eyes went downcast towards my leather boots, unable to breathe in the same room as my own father.

Ser Rodrik pulled my chin harshly to face his stern face. "Do you think your mind games will help when five men attack you from all the corners?"

"It worked with you." I bit my loose tongue that had its way of its own before my head could filter.

His face twitched, and we stared at each other, animosity dissipating each moving minute until Jory laughed like a fool seeing a play. Even Ser Rodrik's cursed lips gave a wavering smile. "Aye! That you did me, girl. I should have listened to Jory. But let me make it clear. I will train you with honor and you will learn to fight with honor. It is a pride to take a blade to your chest, rather to stab an enemy's back."

Still, I couldn't in my right mind face my father. He wouldn't approve of this. So, I did the only thing that would mend the bonds with my father. I handed over that bloody sword to the master-at-arms. At least, the old man would feel victorious, now.

"Have you given up, already?" He roared, and I stared up, shaking my head, not knowing how to form the words of why I would be quitting. "That was not a fair game. Aye! But my arms are bleeding while yours are not. You earned it. Keep it to yourself." He said with another pat on my shoulders, like the same he'd given in the morning.

Only then my mud head started working. I was merely tested. Mouth gaping wide, I stared at Jory who offered a silent wink, teasing me of my victory. They had done it to see my worth.

"Now, I won't be like Jory to leave your slogging ass as you wish. If you think you can best men, then you have to be as disciplined as them and work harder to earn your place. There won't be any excuses, else you will do your punishment. Is that understood?" Ser Rodrik bellowed out a command rather than asking a question, and I nodded like a child attentive on snatching candies.

Finally, when the armory became silent, Lord Stark came, his hands fumbling to help me out of my scaled armor. "I am sorry, father." My voice was breaking. I couldn't let him down. I knew I embarrassed myself and became a ridicule laughingstock. Who would be proud of me, now?

"What for, Lya?" He asked unbothered, as he helped me out and checked for wounds on my knees. It was not on my knees, but the back of my thighs. My breeches were covered from him to see my bruises. Only when he assumed I was not wounded more than I could take, he gave out a long sigh. "I should be sorry. I shouldn't have let you do this. Not in the pit. Ser Rodrik had asked of me, and Jory was insisting you were ready. You should not feel any need to force yourself to this trauma. I gave a promise, Lya! And Gods… blame my-"

"So, are you not angry that I let you down?"

His face contorted in an angle of mystery. "You can never let me down."

I was whetting the sword, a brand new skill that I acquired from my father. Oiling the blade–'White Whisker' I'd named it, for it tasted the old man's blood first, was my favorite pastime. Especially if that pastime allowed me to escape from the hollowness in my head.

The only other work that could put rest to my wavering thoughts was standing on the pit and training till I bled. I earned to feel that rush every day, as though it held solutions to all my worries. This wasn't an easy journey. In fact, when I'd begun I'd cried myself to sleep, as pain surged from head to toe, every time the field kissed my ass.

It'd been too hard on me, in the beginning. Disciplining myself to adhere to this new lifestyle had brought a monster out of me. Too consuming. It broke all resolutions of my heart. I was about to give up one day. Ser Rodrik had told me otherwise. He'd asked me to embrace the pain, let it grow inside me, and slowly with time, I eventually surrendered. I had never understood why my father's men boasted about getting killed in the war. Now, though, I get it. It never mattered what we were fighting for, or against who we were fighting. It only mattered we fight.

As days passed into moons, I had never felt so much as alive to wake up before anyone and follow even the minuscule instruction of what Ser Rodrik would command of me.

It had been close to eight moons now. Ever since I became one among the men in the castle. It'd not been that way in the beginning. I had gone to pit, trained with Robb, my father's guards, and slowly over time, I'd earned Ser Rodrik's trust. And seeing my restlessness, which I often was, if left alone to my mind, he gave me simpler tasks.

The one where I could assist the Smith to beat on an anvil to make horse-shoes, arrow-heads. Everyone must earn their keep, right? And so I took it as a craft and poured my dedication to learning the art of it. My father hadn't given approval to my enthusiasm. In fact, he'd pulled me out and explained how I would not need to subject myself to such harsh survival, and he'd promised he'd leave me with plenty of coins.

I'd heard it a thousand times, of how even a Stark bastard meant a good stock to be purchased. But I didn't want myself to be purchased. I was too prideful to live at other's mercy. And so, I'd politely asked him to let me grow on my own. Soon things had caught fire on my heels.

I hadn't visited the Maester's turret in moons. Even though he'd requested my help. I simply had no time to spare for the gray-haired old man. Roaming around in the castle, sharing food with my father's men, my life was on fire, enjoying every passing moment, right from leaving to the woods for a good hunting or replace guards on the battlements or to go for a patrol on the lands of the castle owned. I'd become a participant in the crisply important duties. Some were done out on spare hours and others were too important to ignore.

Over time, I'd learned that I was not good at following commands. No, I lacked the natural ability to do so. I hadn't done any work that I was commanded, without having my own mind play judgment on it. It was ridiculous to look at the problem at hand and not find a good solution for it.

If Ser Rodrik would send me to bring the troubling peasants, I'd rather solve the issues. To tell I'd used my place as Lord Stark's daughter would be an understatement. Well, I was a bastard for a reason. I'd used anything that was thrown on my way. Ser Rodrik had tried punishing me, but most of the time, he'd given me a pass after every trial that I'd failed. Again, I'd use my bastard status here with which I stood a step above in status than the men I wandered about.

No one bothered to make an issue out of it. The surrounding men had no qualms over anything I did. Of course, their reasons were different to play nice with me. Initially, I'd been thrilled to speak with them, mingle with them, and at one stage I'd thought I could fit in this role, in Winterfell, to always be by Robb's side. But when I'd started hearing salacious comments about my womanly body, I had to restrain myself from punching the same men I shared my ale with.

The innocent smile from the lips of those men had transferred to gentle touches through the tip of their fingers towards my arms. It was consuming my blood-wrenching soul to exist amongst them, who'd whisper me beautiful, pretty, and more profanities that I couldn't fathom in my head and move along without getting bothered. I'd forced myself to be a loner now, and my questionable future was quenching my soul.

Robb had given me no peace either. He'd asked me to refrain from involving in manly affairs, as he'd promptly addressed the line of duty I had committed myself to. I'd thrown a fit of how he could easily throw away my happiness with such insults. And I'd walked away on him, never turning back. It'd been a moon that I last spoke with him. As I said, my ego was huge as a mountain to even apologize to the only person I knew in and out.

My time in this role was slowly ticking. I was aware of it. It would be a matter of days when my father would reprimand me and lock me in a tower. Or worse, he might give my hand to a stranger, and be done with his duties. I didn't know which was more painful. All I learned was, I was not going to be fit enough to run alongside these men in the races that had no end line.

"If I could get a golden dragon every time you brooded, I could build a Kingdom of my own, my salt-wife!" Theon's voice erupted from behind, his sly smile wickedly playing a curse. "How about a deal? I will give a golden dragon for every minute you bare your lithe body to me?" Before my eyes traveled, my long sword was pointed to his neck, slightly nicking to see if a few drops of blood would shut his unwelcomed presence. He flicked the blood with his finger and licked it like tasting honey, tongue making lewd movements, just so to tease me in his exotic ugly manners.

"Get lost, Greyjoy! I am in no mood to banter with you."

"Your loss, bastard." His causality had become normality on me. I thought he would leave, but he gave the longest stare before settling down on the rock beside me, his back against mine. "Do you know what name they call you now?"

I stiffened. I'd hardly thought about how I was perceived by the worlds' eyes. With internal resolution, I'd settled to never seek out the truth that I didn't want to hear. "Can you not tell me?" I asked, earnestly wishing he would give it a rest.

I knew he wouldn't let that slip away. Any chance he'd get on shoving me down to dirt, he would play with all his might. And I was stealing my heart, waiting for the blow. "Fine… For this one time, I will let it slide." He vaguely stated.

We had bad blood. Right from the day when we'd met each other. Most of the days, we had insulted hurling any crass words that would bother to roll along with our tongue, and it didn't help me that Theon became too close with Robb, of whom I'd always been protective of. "Did you assist my father well during the execution? By the way, how did it go?"

"Don't worry! You were not missed." He chanted in his usual tease. "Dead men don't need to see the cunts that they can't have."

I rolled my eyes before setting upon to whetting my blade. That was the Greyjoy I knew and grew up with. "Did you oil my father's blade? I wonder if he needs your help in the Godswoods." My teasing tone was no less courteous than his. Everyone had a weakness, and I knew his weakness, just as he knew mine. I never had to refrain myself from lashing a poisonous tongue at him, as he had at me. Somewhere, in my heart, it was etched that he was no different than me in this place. Just like me, he never truly belonged. Ideally, we should have been friends, but we both fought for the same illusionary chair that rested next to the Starks. He was just a prisoner, and I was just a bastard.

"Let me give you a tip, Lyarra Snow." He made a point to address my whole name. Point scored for him as it stung my heart a little. "Rather than fighting off men who want to fuck you, if you let them do the deed, at least you will add more coins to your purse."

"Fuck off, asshole!"

"Sometimes, with the way you act so prissy, I start believing you are a lady, you know." Theon went on his ramble to make me feel unworthy. Maybe I pitied him a bit more than I would give credit for, which was why none of his words had hurt me in the past. But today I was wearing out of patience. "Umbert is making a wager to claim your maidenhead." He laughed, peering down to see if I was affected, and I tried too hard to maintain my neutral face. "It is too tempting for them, you see, to control the carnal urges with you shaking your bouncing ass about them. I bet my wager on for only four more days. Who knows with whose bastard you will start swelling with before the King arrives."

My knuckles had landed on his chin, and he in turn landed on the hard stone. I could bear about anything other than to think about giving birth to a bastard. The fool deserved it. He began cursing at me, hollering such honey-laced cuss words that only his mouth could perfect before I started shaking my knuckles that'd got hurt.

"What the fuck is that?" He plucked out my arm, extending it towards his chest and stared at the long gash that ran across from my elbow to wrist. I'd been treating the wound, the one that I'd received after a wrong move that I made against a beastly northerner. The wound was like me. Too stubborn to heal, and I'd no time to visit the Maester. I tried to pry away my pain, but Theon was reluctant in letting go of the hold on my arm and started tracing the scar inch by inch. "Look, what you have done to this sleek ivory flesh!" He seemed to have forgotten his swelling cheeks were at much worst shape than my healing arm. "Only a stubborn cunt as you can manage to spoil this blessed beauty that the Gods gave you."

What the fuck is he rambling?

He flung away my arms as he caught me staring at his administrations of my scars like he had cared for me. "Who cares? You are just a bastard!" He deflected from the truth by placing poison on his tongue which didn't reach his eyes, the one which was showing relative care to my well-being. "I found one abandoned, unwanted bastard like you in the woods. Your brothers and sisters won't have of it. Thought you would both fit together well." He said moving behind the rock to lift a white fluffy bundle in his arms.

"Is that a—"

"Aye… Aye… Stop acting like a flushed, pretty maid and feed it before it dies." Theon practically threw it to my arms before walking away. "And like fuck as not, stay away from harming your seductive skin, at least until I fuck you."

"Asshole!" I smiled when the albino opened its red eyes and peered into me like it'd known me for a thousand years. "Ghost!"